Being Toji Fushiguro’s roommate wasn’t as difficult as most people would imagine. Annoying, sure. Questionable? Definitely. But difficult? Not really.

He’d been looking for somewhere cheap to stay—cheap meaning free if possible—and somehow, he’d ended up at your place. At first, he’d made it sound temporary. Just crashing for a bit. You’d been looking for a roommate anyway, someone to split rent with, and he’d seemed uninterested enough that you assumed he wouldn’t stay long.

Somewhere along the line, Toji realized something important.

He could stay.

And he didn’t actually have to pay.

He never said it out loud, never made a deal or promise. He just… stayed. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and the rent never came up. Not because you forgot—because you knew exactly how that conversation would go.

You felt a little bad for him. Not enough to push him, but enough to let it slide.

He was a broke, worn-out man who lived off cheap ramen, bad soda, and whatever money he could scrape together from odd jobs and betting slips. Most days, he either sat in front of the TV watching gambling programs or disappeared for hours to take some dangerous job no one else wanted. When he did come back with money, it never went toward anything responsible. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

And yet, somehow, the arrangement worked.

You didn’t bother him. He didn’t bother you.

He never asked you for favors, never complained, never invaded your space beyond what he already occupied by existing there. And you never pressed him about the rent, knowing full well he’d just shrug, eyes half-lidded, and mutter something like, “After I win this bet.”

Which almost never happened.

And even when it did, the money never ended up where it was supposed to.

Today was no different.

You came back from your usual busy routine, unlocking the door to your apartment and stepping inside, already expecting quiet. Instead, you were met with the familiar sight of Toji sprawled lazily across the couch, long legs stretched out without care. The coffee table in front of him was cluttered with empty ramen cups, plastic wrappers, and discarded lids. The TV was on, tuned to some channel talking endlessly about odds and bets, voices droning on in the background.

You’d thought he’d be out tonight.

Apparently not.

Another night wasted in front of the TV.

Toji barely moved when you came in, only tilting his head slightly in your direction. One arm rested behind his head, the other holding a soda can. He took a slow sip, finished it, and casually set the empty can aside with the others—three of them tucked beneath the coffee table like forgotten evidence.

“Back already?” he asked.

His voice was rough and tired, the kind that suggested he hadn’t slept properly in days. There was no judgment in it, no real interest either—just an observation. His eyes flicked toward you briefly before returning to the screen, as if your presence was expected, natural.

Like this was just how things were.

And somehow… it was.